The Island
by Fried Cheesecake
Summary: Germany and Italy are stranded on an island at the height of the war. /fem!Italy/


Originally posted on my tumblr.

* * *

The ship crashes and all the humans drown.

They do too, at first, but then Germany feels Italy tugging on his sleeve, and he wakes up, choking on the water in his lungs but still somehow breathing, and he lets her drag him to the surface where he spits and vomits and she gasps for air.

The ship crashes somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, somewhere near a chain of islands but far from civilization. Italy clings to him, wet hair sticking to her face, and wraps herself around him, unaware that her weight isn't helping at all, so Germany sheds his boots and his heavy jacket, lets all of his medals and ribbons sink to the bottom of the ocean, and, once relieved of the weight, he grabs Italy and tells her that they need to make for that island over there.

She's the better swimmer, it turns out, and he can't imagine why he's surprised. She is Venice, after all, and though she doesn't use a refined technique like he does, she manages to swim farther faster and keeps going longer. The island is much further than Germany thought; he has to stop after a while, still breathing out water, and call out to Italy to come back, don't leave him for God's sakes, so she does and they tread water for a little while, until the sun touches the edges of the distant palm trees and he hurries them along.

They make it to the shore before nightfall, but the sky is black by the time they find shelter among the trees. Italy insists on climbing up into the branches to rest there; she has more energy than he does (even now, after swimming for miles), so he lets her pull him up onto a branch where she settles herself in his lap (there isn't enough room for two, she says, so Germany kisses her forehead when she pretends like she isn't crying) and falls asleep.

Their clothes are soaked and Italy's shivers are enough to cause an earthquake; Germany considers lighting a fire, but that would mean getting down from tree and leaving Italy on her own. Instead he wraps his arms around her, rests his chin on her forehead, and lets himself drift off.

* * *

"I thought we would be rescued," Italy says quietly. She's picking at the sunburn on her arms, crouched in the sand watching him gut a fish.

Germany looks up, bloody hands making a vain attempt to find them some protein. This fish is too small. He should stop trying. There isn't going to be anything big enough this close to the shore.

"I don't know how," Italy continues. When Germany remains quiet, she looks away and stretches her legs out in the sand. "We've been here for days and they've no way of knowing where we crashed. But I just thought, somehow…" She trails off, seeming suddenly distant. Germany opens his mouth, spreads his parched lips and has to clear his throat to speak.

"Thirteen days," he says hoarsely. Italy looks up in surprise.

"What?"

"We've been here thirteen days," he says again.

She bites her lip. "It's been two weeks already. We would be on our way back from Japan by now." She runs a hand up her leg, stops at the tattered hemline of her uniform skirt. "The hair on my legs is growing back."

Germany gives her a blank look. "What?" he asks. Italy smiles a bit.

"You don't know anything about women, do you? We have leg hair too."

"No you don't," he says, pointing at her legs with a fishy hand. "Your legs are always smooth."

She laughs, and it's just a small chuckle but it's the first happy sound they've heard in weeks. "That's because I shave them. I didn't before, though; we used to just wear stockings." She scoots over in the sand to throw her legs in his lap. "But you need nylon for parachutes now. War before beauty."

He glances down at her legs, is tempted to touch them but is still holding a bloody fish in his hands. "I just thought… I mean, I didn't know women had body hair."

Italy's expression suddenly gets serious. "You didn't know," she says slowly. "Hey Germany… are you a virgin?"

He coughs, avoiding her eyes. "I guess so," he says quietly. There's heat in his cheeks, but it might just be sunburn. He glances up and sees Italy watching him, her brown eyes alight with questions. He feels compelled to say more. "When my brother and I would go out drinking," he says, dropping his eyes again, "he used to try to get me to dance with women. I did it sometimes, if I'd had enough to drink, I'd go over and ask them. They were nice enough, but they could tell I had no idea what I was doing. They always knew they'd been set up." He turns his attention back to the fish for a few moments, then glances back to Italy. "Why?"

She shrugs, pressing the heels of her feet against his thighs. "I just wanted to know. Also, you didn't know that women have body hair, so that was kind of a warning sign…"

Germany gives up on the fish. He tosses it into the waves as they rise up on the shore, and when the water falls back into the ocean, the fish carcass is gone. He avoids Italy's eyes, taking a moment to hold her sandy feet instead, pressing his thumbs against her smooth skin.

"You can ask me," she says quietly.

He clears his throat. "Are you? I don't know if this is proper to ask a lady, but last time we met, you said… but I mean, it's been a while since then."

Italy smiles at him, curls her knees up to her chest to reach in and brush his loose hair back off his face. "I was," she says, "last time we met. But then the twenties happened."

Germany sighs. "The twenties."

"Mm. I met a man at a dance hall and I let him take me home. My brother was so mad."

He sighs again. "That sounds like him." Germany rubs her feet, absentmindedly but intentionally. "I used to be so embarrassed," he says quietly, a blush rising again, "about… about being a virgin. The girls at the dance hall would tease me. Gilbert was even worse." His hand traces up Italy's leg, feeling the short hair that brushes under his fingers. "It seems silly now, that something like that would matter so much."

"I don't care," she hums. She draws her legs back and pulls them under herself, and, propped up on her heels, leans in to kiss Germany's cheek. She kisses the golden whiskers on his face. "I don't care," she says again, murmuring. She kisses his lips now, hands holding his cheeks, and he moves his arms up to grab her waist.

"What do you not care about?" he asks, whispering against her lips.

She eases one leg over the other side of his waist. "Anything," she sighs, kissing him again.

* * *

Germany tries to keep up appearances. He still has a reputation to maintain: shaggy hair and a scruffy castaway beard simply won't do. Italy does his hair for him; she uses the knife he saved from the wreck to snip away at long bits of hair and keep him looking fresh. She doesn't mind, she says, humming while she works. She leans into him, her own long hair brushing against his shoulders. He doesn't mind either, with the warmth of her naked breasts pressed right against his neck.

But he cuts himself every time he tries to shave without a mirror, and the sun's reflection in the water is too bright to stare into; soon it's not worth it to maintain a look that is only respected in a land far away from this island.

After he gives up on his hair, he gives up on decency too. He lost his jacket and boots when they drowned, but the sun beats too hard against the dark fabric of his shirt and pants, so he loses those too and is soon wearing ragged boxers and nothing else. Italy, on the other hand, let herself go wild the moment they touched down on the shore. She ties her hair into two long braids and wanders around the island in a half naked state, both feet and breasts bare, soaking up the pacific sun in her skin.

She wears a skirt but only because he makes her; he can handle naked breasts, but plump thighs and sun kissed hips are too much, so he insists everyday that she covers herself. It isn't really a skirt at all, just a tablecloth stolen from the wreckage of their previous life. One tanned leg slips through the split where the ends of the cloth are tied together, leaving little to the imagination, but for Germany, a newcomer to the world of women, it's better than nothing.

He has trouble adjusting at first, to this strange new life of sleeping in trees and catching fish with bare hands; he's always had a purpose, something to do, and now he is stranded on a tropical island with a naked Italian goddess and no means of escape. Some men might wonder why he'd want to leave. But there is a war raging somewhere nearby; they sit on the cliffs at night, huddling around a camp fire and hoping that a friendly ship will see their light. They become hopeful even at the thought of an American ship.

Soon they develop a schedule, because Germany has to have something to do. He wakes with the sun, leaves Italy to sleep a while longer, goes and finds breakfast- usually coconut milk and some sort of fruit- then wakes Italy up and they start the day. Most of their life is gathering food- fruit, fish, whatever they can find- and having sex. Making love, Italy calls it, as she guides his hands farther south, her brow shining with sweat and her breasts glistening in the sunlight. There isn't much else to do on the island besides touch each other. Sometimes they sit and talk, sometimes when they feel not so sad they go swimming, but they run out of things to say after a while and all they have left are their bodies. He's not so good with words anyways.

Sometimes he worries about her getting pregnant. It can happen to nations, he's been told, if the conditions are right, and if the conditions are ever going to be right, it would be now. Maybe not right for them, but certainly for their countries. War does not wait. They've been on the island for a month or maybe two when she whispers to him at night that she hasn't bled since they landed. He doesn't know much about female business, but he knows enough to feel a cold twinge of fear at these words. It isn't much of a relief when she confides that it's most likely due to a poor diet- _how can she be certain_- so he keeps a steady eye on her in the weeks afterward, watching for telltale signs of pregnancy. He tries to maintain a better diet for her, to help her body back on track (his too- they're both dehydrated and starving and constipated), but she says no. She'd rather go hungry than have to have a period again.

* * *

They are rescued eventually.

* * *

"That's a ship," Italy says suddenly.

Germany glances out toward the horizon.

There it is. A ship bearing that friendly red and white flag. They've been found.

But what a time to be rescued. Italy's on his lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, sweat coating her face, and he's making love to her in the sand, clutching her close as she moves up and down.

"That's a ship!" she exclaims again, pulling herself up on her feet. "That's a ship! That's a Japanese ship! They found us, Germany, they found us!"

He swears at her, throws the blanket to her and orders her to cover herself- _"Japan's so peculiar about that kind of stuff, don't you remember?!" "We're castaways, he'll understand!"_- then pulls on his own pants and stands with her.

* * *

The first thing Italy does when they get on the ship is hug Japan. He seems mortified by her nakedness, but glad to see her all the same.

* * *

"You've been missing for three months," Japan informs them the next morning. They bathed, they ate, they drank cups of fresh water and then vomited it up, and then they slept for at least twelve hours each. The ship is on its way back to base in Indo China, where they'll refuel and restock, and then they'll return to Europe. Back to the war. "For a while I feared the worst. But the war continued even in your absence, so we began a search."

"I'm sorry," Germany says, running a hand over his cleanly shaven face. They're standing on the deck of the battleship, Italy clinging to him now more than ever. "I should have tried to contact you using our ship's systems. It never fully sank. I'm sure I would have been able to-"

Japan puts a friendly hand on his shoulder. "It was not your responsibility," he says sternly, "nor your fault. Do not worry about it. You two are safe now."

Italy's fingernails dig into Germany's clean shirt. She's wearing a Japanese uniform that is much too big- _it's too big on him too, once it would have been too small_- and leaning into him. She doesn't say much.

* * *

It's snowing in Berlin when they finally get home.

"Weird," Italy says, "to see snow. I almost expected sand to be falling out of the sky, I'm still finding it everywhere."

Germany kisses her in front of his brother, just to prove a point.

* * *

And then Italy leaves, after all of that.

* * *

And then they lose the war.

* * *

"Do you remember the first time we made love?" she whispers to him one night. He opens his eyes in the dark, can't see her but knows she's there. They've never spoken about the island; they don't speak about the war at all, even though it's what brought them together.

"I remember being scared," Germany whispers back, stroking her hair. "I remember you telling me what to do."

He feels her smile against his collarbone. "I remember how fast it was over. I was disappointed."

He scoffs. "That's what you remember?"

She laughs in the dark. "That's what comes to mind first. But I also remember the way it felt when our skin touched, and how much I loved you at that very moment. I remember not caring if we were ever rescued or not."

His fingers clench against her skin. "You never told me you loved me." She stays silent. "Not even before you left."

Italy breathes quietly, turning her face up to kiss his chin. "Neither did you," she says. "But I'm telling you now."

He smiles. "I suppose that's good enough."

"Stop teasing me, I want to hear you say it too."

He kisses her forehead. "I love you, Italy," he whispers. She smiles again.

"And I love you, Germany."


End file.
